Snippets of Chefs
by Ciel du Nord
Summary: Chefs have ups and downs thorough their life. Here are some snippets of the moments who changed them. Snippets of the people who they hold dear to their hearts. (First chapter; Akira's Nutmeg. His old man is a ball of anger and spices. Akira blames his lack of height.)


**Nutmeg**

"Mister Hayama, renowned Japanese spices specialist, recently discovered that umami, one of the five basic tastes, is linked with-"

Akira watches the video on his phone silently, headphones blocking any sounds coming from his wild comrades. Soma came to their little gathering with another of his toxic dishes.

A little something tugs his lips upwards.

His godfather did it. After years and years of research, he proved to the world that his theory about umami is, in fact, reality.

Jun will want to party tomorrow. He makes a quick list of ingredients on his phone. Cinnamon cheesecake will make her taste buds dance. It will go well with the light, sugary alcohol she prefers these days.

On cue, Jun sends him a text.

 _The old nut did it! ಥ‿ಥ_

He doesn't comment on the weird emoticon crying tears of joy. He sends a 'yes' back and turns off his phone.

His headphones slide down his hair and the teen hears Soma's unholy cackles as he runs after their friends to shove down his purple food, from which a pungent smell emanates, down their throat.

Akira wisely retreats from the scene. One, it's almost midnight and they do have a curfew, even if nobody respects it. Two, he doesn't want Soma's new delicacy close to his nose.

At home, in his bed, he sends a short message to his mentor to congratulate him. He receives no answer. He shrugs and turns off his phone again. The old man must not have woken yet, on his side of the world.

The ashen-haired teen closes his eyes, nose against his pillow. The new spices pouch he puts under blanket during the day is doing wonders to him. His muscle easily relax, there's no tension between his shoulder blades and no crease between his brows. The teen breathes evenly, yet doesn't drift into sleep.

He thinks about the old Hayama.

His godfather is as tough as a nut.

Hard. Harsh; definitely will kick anybody and everybody in the shins if that person does not do something correctly. Especially people who look buffer and are taller than him. He is a little ball of anger and spices.

Akira blames the man's small dimensions.

The man transformed his lack of height into a formidable source of fury and energy. When his hair left him, bidding him goodbye before leaping into the sewers, he took the heartbreak of such a separation and transformed it into even more energy. He makes up for his physical disabilities, Jun dares to whisper when he is half a world away, encouraged by the fact that he shouldn't be able to jump from the nearest closet to lecture her on respecting her elders. He manages to do it anyway, from times to times.

(Akira, when he was younger, thought his godfather was too small for such big emotions. Certainly, he mused, one day, the old man would explode into fireworks. It hasn't happened. Yet.)

The mocha colored teen remembers long nights in the lab, watching his mentor work, helping when and where he could. He remembers with a slight smile the rare moments where the old man's eyes would twinkle in reserved happiness after a new breakthrough. How excited he looked when he declared Akira's nose is the stuff of legend. How his stern lips tug upwards when Akira offers him a masala chai latte with nutmeg when he visits his old seminar.

The old man is unusually fond of nutmeg.

Jun used to present dishes with nutmeg to his altar (desk) when she wanted to be forgiven. That happened, too many times to count. She often enrolled Akira to help cook these dishes. It is how he discovered his affection for cuisine surpassed his desire to stay holed up in a lab to dissect the effects of cayenne on monkeys.

The old Hayama used to grumble that he wouldn't forgive her silliness so easily. Then he would take a bite. And another. And another, until his plate was back to its former pristine state. The mischievous duo knew they were out of troubles when he would sigh, glare and tell them to scram and never come back. (The only exception, the thing that could lead them back to his office, Akira discovered it after many trials and errors. Coffee topped with nutmeg was the key to Hayama's office and well of knowledge on spices. The boy exploited the loophole with dedication.)

The Indian teen developed the habit of putting nutmeg everywhere over the years. Nutmeg has a kick to it. It can overpower everything if too much is added to a dish. Yet, once the warm wave has passed, there's a certain sweet twang that plays on the tip of one's tongue.

His phone rings. Akira blinks his eyes open and reaches for his phone. The number is unfamiliar. He hesitates before his thumb presses the green button.

"Hello?"

"Akira, my boy!" Akira winces and puts his phone away. It is too late to have somebody making his eardrums dance. The teen sighs and clears his throat.

"Hello, professor. Congratu-"

"Akira, what do you think of this: green, yellow and red peppers cooked 2 minutes, 15 seconds and half-second in the oven with a drizzle of virgin olive oil. Take the skin off and put them in three bowls. Now, a pinch of Kocher salt- yes, coarse salt is the best kind of salt and you know it. Now, mash the peppers. And add one kind of chocolate to each bowl."

Akira likes his mentor, even when the man wakes him up in the dead of the night to talk about cooking. Does it mean he will have to sacrifice his sleep again to his dear mad scientist?

He is not that stupid.

"10 grams of cayenne for the dark chocolate." Hayama rambles, papers rustling on his side of the line. "It needs to be dried on a porous rock to get the best texture and taste possible."

Akira reaches for his nightstand with a hum. He turns on the light. Black spots swim in his eyes. He blinks and opens the unique drawer of his nightstand. There, lying alone on a heap of forgotten papers, stand his best tool to deal with midnight call from an energetic old man. He grabs his recorder, flicks the worn chrome interrupter on and puts his phone on top of it.

Akira closes the drawer as gently as his bleary mind and numb fingers can.

"For the milk chocolate, I will need your help. The chocolate has a whopping 40% of cacao. Excellent quality, as usual. That Belgian bastard still owes me a thousand favors for letting him marry my precious daughter." The voice coming from his phone has become a thin stream of noises. Akira lies back on his bed and sighs contentedly.

Akira closes his eyes.

"Akira? Akira, you little bastard, did you put on recorder me again-"

The shameless godson is already sneezing.

The drawer shakes with the roar of an ignored small ball of fury. "Do you remember how you used to beg me for a new challenge or job just so you could stay near Jun? Because I do!"

Real chefs should be nuts for cuisine, during the day. But not as much as Ryo Kurokiba. Akira stands his ground: bipolarity is a mental illness, even if people around clearly try to act as if nothing is wrong with his head. The fish addict should be in a mental ward, not competing in shokugekis and putting the fear of God and dark-haired man with shark-sharp teeth into poor little girls.

If putting that annoying Kurokiba in a mental asylum gets his unwanted rival out of his way, killing two birds with one stone, well, Akira can only call it a coincidence.


End file.
